Aftermath
by justanotherfireaddict13
Summary: The battle is over. Now the question is: where do they go from here? Focuses mostly on Hawkeye/Black Widow (hence they're the only two listed) but there will be chapters dedicated to the other Avengers. Rated T for language. (By the way, this is my first fanfiction on this site, apologies if I mess something up accidentally.)
1. Chapter 1

The shawarma was staring her in the face, but she could barely summon the strength to lift her fork. All around her, the Avengers sat, heads in hands and feet propped on others' chairs, the very picture of weariness. Even Tony, who'd pushed so damn hard for them to try the place, wasn't eating.

It was Steve who finally cracked first. "So…what now?"

She knew she was tired, she knew she was still pissed for reasons she didn't want to examine, but she couldn't hold back her response. "Are you _asking _for another ungodly war, Captain?"

He glared at her in response, which only pushed her to keep going. "We sit on our asses and we thank _God _for the time we get off, until Fury gives us a ring and needs our sorry asses back in S.H.I.E.L.D."

Bruce watched her warily. "Natasha, we're in civility."

She bit down on another scathing retort, instead choosing to crush some strange fried thing. She choked that down along with the inevitable conclusion that the Hulk was right – they were around civilians and so needed to act as such. But how could you do that with two master assassins, a _giant green rage monster _(as Stark had so eloquently put it), the freaking Norse god of thunder, a lab experiment that should've died seventy years ago, and a literal man of steel? It was all so ridiculous. And to think that they could even _pretend _to pull off normality! Suddenly fed up with everyone, Natasha rose and silently, swiftly, strode out the front door, leaving cautious, questioning glances in her wake.

It was loud, panic still crackling in the air and car alarms blaring. "Oh, for the love of _God_…" Absolutely unable to deal with the bullshit noise, she ran around to the back of the building and slumped against the brick wall. Some of the noise was blocked, and she was concealed. _Win-win._

"Natasha." _Or not._

"For my sake, Barton, this had better be good." A world-weary Natasha Romanoff was also an _angry _Natasha Romanoff, and right now she was staring the standing figure of Clint Barton in the face, who was staring back at her, shocked. When the world's best assassin _admitted _that she was halfway to shit, things were bad.

He tensely crouched next to her. "You wanna tell me what's going on?"

"Go _away_, Barton," she snapped, hiding her face in her knees. Her short red hair fell over them, making a cap of dark fire.

Instead, he fully sat, knees to his chest and arms encircling them. "Not happening, Nat."

She resisted the urge to punch him in the face – although maybe it would knock out whatever stupidity was now taking over his mental faculties. In a way, it was worse than Loki. Her jaw clenched at the thought of the cowardly Asgardian – oh, what she wouldn't do to have him alone in an inescapable room.

In a move so stupid it - for anyone else - was suicide, Clint brushed the side of her face with his rough hand. As expected, her head rose and green eyes bored into his own, but he held his ground. He was more to her than just another part of the chaotic chemical mixture called the Avengers and they both knew it, even if she lived in constant denial about it.

Natasha suddenly lost her cool. "_Damn it, Barton!" _She shouted in Russian, binding her arms even tighter about herself for fear of falling to pieces. He raised an eyebrow at her, egging her on; she knew it was manipulation, but it was official – she'd gone to shit. "_You left me to deal with all your _shit_! Becoming goddamn _compromised_, how the fuck could you let that happen?!"_

He'd been understanding before, but now he was just flat-out pissed. "_I didn't have a choice_," he snapped back in her native language. _"You think I _wanted _to become Loki's personal fucking flying monkey? God _damn _it, Natasha, the insane bastard pulled me out and stuffed himself in!"_

_ "You should have fought!" _She shouted at him.

"If I could have, I would've, sweetheart," he said darkly. It was even more tiring to argue in Russian than it was in English.

Her silence was icy and unforgiving; green eyes glared at him before they suddenly dropped. He already knew that they would simply block emotion and not reflect – her walls were up again. Frustration shot through his battered body, angry and hot – none of this was his god damn fault. He shifted closer, deliberately invading her personal space, and when she looked up, she met simmering blue eyes. It should be a _sin _to have eyes that were _that _angry and still be _that_ attractive. Not that she would ever tell him that.

"I'm not going to apologize for something that was out of my control, Natasha," he whispered, breath brushing her ear. She kept the rolling shiver under lock and key, refusing to succumb to the reaction. Watching her eyes, he knew he'd won. Clint shifted even closer, until they were merely inches apart.

"Are you _trying_ to earn another bruise, Barton?" She spat, leveling him with a deadly glare.

"No," he murmured, pulling her to him, "I'm _trying _to kiss you." He left no room for argument as he pressed his lips to hers, silently asking her to _please _let him truly kiss his partner. She made an angry huff, but she finally relented and kissed him back. Then she kissed him harder. It had been months since she'd let Clint really see her as she was underneath the Black Widow persona – and she'd missed him, no matter how many times she shot that part of her brain.

Gravel was digging into her arm, and she would've been able to completely mask the minor pain if her eye hadn't twitched. Barton, too damn perceptive for his own good, noticed – and rolled so she lay on the asphalt, her side close to the brick. He caged her, bracing himself on his forearms, and ducked his head down again. Natasha sighed and ran her hand through his short, spiky hair, the other wrapped around his neck. The fact that she'd made sound at all made him happier than he'd been in a while.

"Barton, this is so not the place to do this," she warned, but she only gripped him tighter. If he actually listened to her she'd flip her shit. After months of physically being away from _her partner, _Natasha was not about to let him go anywhere.

"Your actions and words are contradicting," he smirked against her lips. Her heart beat faster and she feared he could taste it on her slightly parted lips.

"Well I'm a confusing person, you know that Barton," she muttered.

He growled. The sound rumbled low in his throat. "My name is _Clint_," he hissed, all playfulness gone. "When I lay here with you, like this, and you _finally_ accept the extent of your feelings – the name that slips out will be _mine_."

Natasha's green eyes hardened, and she abruptly pushed him off of her, brushing gravel off her jacket. The following silence was colder than anything she could've said. "I don't have _feelings_," she hissed reflexively, unable to take it – she might own her body now, but the Red Room would unfortunately always be with her. Ingrained in her reflexes and instincts. Surrounding her past, clouding it with red. Pressing against the sanity she wasn't sure she still had.

"Natasha –" Clint recognized the expression on her face. "Where are you right now?"

Her brow furrowed slightly. "What?"

"Where are you right now?" He repeated, staring into those smoking green eyes.

"This is stupid," she scoffed derisively. _Deflection._

"_Just answer me_, Natasha," Barton snapped, trapping her in his hard stare.

"We're in New York," she muttered begrudgingly. "We just fought the most annoying demigod thing known to man. You and I are personally out back of some stupid restaurant Stark made us all eat at." As she looked back at her partner, she relaxed as much as was possible for her. She was with Barton – the only person she even _remotely _trusted. _Well, maybe Coulson too. Maybe. _And then her eyes tightened - Coulson was dead. Their past handler and Barton's only other friend was dead. World peace and justice had lost a champion. Realizing that her emotions were visible, even if only slightly, she quickly blanked her face and brought another emotion to the forefront of her mind - before he could catch on._  
_

Clint watched her eyes revert to how they'd originally looked and knew that she wasn't drowning in her past any longer. Feeling the exhaustion, she leaned against his shoulder. "You're welcome," he said teasingly.

"Shut up." She punched his arm, but it was halfhearted. She could finally _breathe_ in the absence of all the shit Loki had brought down on them, and she intended to take full advantage of it. He attempted to speak again, but she covered his mouth with one hand without looking. "Just don't." _Let me breathe_ was left unsaid, but she knew he understood.

**A/N: Hello all! Hope you're enjoying so far (who am I kidding - not a lot happens in 1509 words)!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Hey guys. This chapter will kick off the Avengers' journey to find normalcy again - whatever and wherever ****_that _****is. Also, I should mention right now: this story ****_may or may not be accurately following the past they all have with Marvel_****. I try and follow it and sometimes end up straying, so apologies in advance. I'll shut up now.**

"So… anyone else wondering why we haven't seen Barton or Romanoff after five minutes?"

"Rodgers, seriously, do not ask about things you don't want to know," Tony said seriously, taking a bite of chicken.

Steve raised an eyebrow, not touching the repulsive-looking food in his basket. He would've argued the point, as he didn't necessarily believe in keeping secrets, but he was so tired he couldn't bring himself to care.

"They're compromised," Banner said suddenly, turning to face the Captain.

"Compromised?" He echoed, surprised. Thor also had a look of puzzlement on his handsome face.

"Yep. They have a very… complex chemistry," Tony said, a small smirk twisting his mouth. Bruce, always levelheaded, simply looked at him, and they both waited for Steve to figure out what they meant.

"…You mean they're _together_?" Realization lit in his eyes.

"On some level yes," Bruce interrupted. "But they haven't been compromised like _that _in a very long time."

"After Budapest, things kind of went to shit," Stark said, displaying his knowledge of everyone's lives. No one had any doubt that it came from hacking the SHIELD database.

"Then what are they doing, wherever they are?" Thor asked rhetorically. The table went silent as everyone tried to keep their minds firmly _out _of the gutter.

The blast of air that came through the opened door lifted them from their questionable thoughts – but they were dropped _right _back into them as they laid eyes on Barton and Romanoff. Both of them looked exactly the same as they had when they left - _exactly _the same. It was scary how blank the Black Widow's face could be. There was not a single trace of emotion left anywhere on her face. Wordlessly, she threw a ten-dollar bill on the table, grabbed her backpack, and silently left the restaurant. Clint nodded at the four before copying his partner's actions.

"They came, they saw…they ditched," Stark deadpanned.

Yet another sharp glare from the high and mighty Captain America was all he got for his cheek.

* * *

**SHIELD helicarrier**

**Tony Stark**

Tony Stark might be a smart-mouthed pain in most people's asses, but he knew when to be quiet. As he watched Doctor Bruce Banner - also known as the giant green rage monster, the Hulk - work in his lab, he understood that this was one of those times. He also knew that Bruce was simply bored - hence the reason he was scanning every inch of of the SHIELD helicarrier.

The thing about quiet was that it and Tony Stark often didn't get along, no matter how hard he tried. "Don't you already know how this hunk of metal works?"

"Not all of it," Bruce answered, still absorbed in the screens. "The retro-reflection panels were the easy part to understand. Also, this all isn't because I'm bored," he added, having guessed correctly at Stark's line of thought. "It's for Steve. You know - trying to catch him up on the latest inventions."

"You could leave that to Conroy, and come play at Stark Tower," he pointed out.

Bruce laughed halfheartedly. "Your personal monument is trashed, Stark. The _other guy _kind of wrecked that." He shifted uneasily as he hacked farther into SHIELD's tech files. "Dammit..."

"Here." Stark grabbed the hanging screen and swung it around to face him. Within seconds, he was faced with multiple firewalls and traps. "What's SHIELD hiding now?" Rapidly typing commands and codes, he barely noticed Thor's appearance in the lab.

"Yes!" Arms thrown in the air victoriously - because hey, after almost dying, everything seemed celebratory - he turned and found the Norse god of thunder standing in their lab. Tony slowly put his arms down. "What's up, Point Break?" The question was casual, as if Thor hadn't just caught him acting like a five-year-old.

"It's your turn for the psych evaluation," he said, face twisted in dislike.

His grin instantly faded. "Psych evaluation? I don't do those. Go get the next person."

"You don't have a choice, Tony! You have to go."

"I don't _have _to do anything," he said rather childishly.

At that moment, Fury's voice filled the lab. "Stark, get your ass down to Psych or you won't be seeing the field for a very long time!"

Defeated, Tony flipped the surveillance camera the finger, glared at Thor, and stormed out, wishing for a shot.

* * *

**SHIELD helicarrier**

**Dr. Bruce Banner**

Bruce had just finished his complete diagram of this massive helicarrier when someone yelled. The sound set his hairs on end - this was a cry of desperation, wrenched from someone who'd seen his own set of horrors and locked them away in an effort to contain the demons. But as he knew all too well, they never stopped fighting. They never stopped eating away at whatever set of steel bars you trapped them behind, never stopped hissing poisonous words that wrapped their thorny tendrils around the fragile center of the human body. The worst part was that they were parasitic: you carried them with you every single day, unable to run from them, with nowhere to hide.

The Other Guy didn't like to be called a parasite, but Bruce refused to call him anything else. He was not his biggest worry at the moment though - the yelling haunting the corridors was still happening, and Dr. Banner was nothing if not a humanitarian: ironic, since half of him was a giant green rage monster that didn't give two shits about humanity. Hurrying out, he followed the chilling noise down three floors and through a completely deserted corridor. _Does SHIELD actually do torture and just doesn't tell us? _Now _that _was a thought that threatened to push him over the edge, so he quickly mentally smashed it and rushed on, pushing through unlocked doors and darkened patches of the ship.

The wall was steel and unobtrusive, looking like every other in the helicarrier, but something was off. Carefully, Bruce tapped spots on the wall, until he found a keypad. There wasn't an obvious way to hack it, seeing as he'd left his laptop in the lab; the keypad could very well be the only way in. He stood there for a while, reviewing his very limited options and every conversation he'd ever had with Stark, until he stepped to it and typed in a code.

**ACCESS**

The hidden door slid aside, revealing a wild-eyed Tony Stark. He couldn't seem to decide whether to curl up in the fetal position or stand and try to fight his way out of this otherwise-impenetrable prison. Clearly in the middle of a triggered trauma attack, he stood and sat, paced and slumped against walls. He was helpless to the mess happening inside his mind. Bruce wasn't sure whether to let him try and deal with the memories he usually stuffed into a mental trash bag or pull him out of it - but it didn't matter, as Tony suddenly collapsed to the floor, curled up like a three-year-old, and went quiet.

Cautiously, he approached. "Anthony?" His voice was quiet, a little rumbly. "Can you hear me?" The tone was as least hostile as possible.

Stark let out a harsh breath of air, the exact opposite of a gasp. Speech seemed to elude him, even as his mouth formed helpless words. He reached out, looking for something that no longer existed. As someone trained to recognize and diagnose traumas, Bruce knew it wasn't a wise idea to grab the reaching hand, but that didn't mean it wasn't hard. Even after years of learning to distance himself from emotional, messy problems, he still struggled with separating the correct humanitarian move from the correct medical move. This in particular caused him so much grief on missions - an unavoidable nuisance.

_Screw it. _Seeing the usually crass man in so much pain was fucking with his mind, and that was the last thing he needed. So he dropped to his knees and grabbed Tony's shoulders. "Stark!" He shouted, shaking him. "Stark!

Contradicting his earlier sound, Tony gasped for air, throat raspy and dry. "Can't - won't let them - "

"Stark, you're not in Afghanistan - you're in New York - _pull it together_!"

He opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water before finally forming his first coherent sentence: "Get - get a lid on it, big guy."

Bruce slumped back and sighed. "Good God, Tony, what did they _do_?"

His face immediately closed off. "Do not ask me that. Seriously." Unobtrusively but obsessively, his hand traced the glowing circlet of metal forever embedded in his chest - something Bruce didn't miss. "I need a drink," he muttered. The ghosts of his past seemed to etch themselves on his face, aging him beyond his years.

Running a hand over his face, he just looked wearily at Iron Man. "Don't we all."

**A/N: Hello all! I AM SO SORRY FOR THE WAIT IN UPDATING! And there will unfortunately be another wait - I will be away for two weeks :/ I'm in the process of writing chapter 3...it's kicking my ass but I'll get it done for you! These chapters will get longer - I can't say when but they will, I promise. This chap was cut-scene to give you insight on both Bruce and Tony as opposed to each having their own chap (which they will eventually).**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: HELLO I AM SO SORRY I HAVEN'T UPDATED IN FOREVER! I was away and things got crazy and yeah. This IS a Clint/Natasha chapter (as is most of Aftermath...but like I said there WILL be other Avenger chapters). Here is your next chapter! **

Darkness is something most people seem to fear. Maybe it's the fact that you can't see what's hiding in its folds, or that your nightmares seem to lurk in the shadows. Maybe it's how the night warps reality, twisting it ever so slightly, making you question what exactly it is that you're seeing in the corner of the room. Children and adults alike pull their warm blankets over their heads at night, believing that if they can't see it, the darkness can't see them.

How very wrong they are.

Natasha Romanoff had long ago learned to stop fearing the darkness - either she would kick its ass or it would kill her. She was _engineered _to be better than the darkness. But someday, she would meet someone who was even blacker than the darkness - and it would be they who delivered her final moments.

She shook her head, loose curls of fire brushing against her chin. That day was not today and likely not tomorrow either - so hallelujah. It was 3 AM and Natasha was wandering the tin can of a base alone, her only company her silent footsteps. Most of her brain was idle - but a part was always scanning her surroundings. The Black Widow had learned from a _very _early age to _never _be unaware of your environment - if you weren't, it would get you killed. And she wasn't planning on leaving anytime soon, especially after surviving all the Loki shit.

The gym already had lights on, and some part of her acknowledged that Barton was probably already in there, "practicing" with that damn bow she still hated. It had been upgraded in recent years - militarized with a much wider variety of arrows - but underneath, it was still the same piece of wood, string and metal she'd despised since day one. He looked at the thing like it was his lover, for the love of god: _who the hell reveres a _bow?

Stupid medieval piece of shit.

_THWACK. _Her fist collided with the punching bag, but it barely swayed. This was one of Captain America's special bags - designed to take one hell of a beating for those nights where the lovely little demons of paranoia and trauma just _wouldn't leave you the fuck alone_. She promptly started to beat the crap out of the heavy black bag and even managed to get angry with _it _- a magnificent feat considering that it just hung there and took her fury. But that was exactly it - it didn't fight back, didn't spit acidic insults at her, couldn't give an answer to all the emotional crap bottled up in her chest.

Natasha's knuckles didn't start bleeding until well after she'd established a groove. _Damn_. Yet again, she hadn't taped them - but when your systems were jacked up on enhancing serums, it really didn't matter. The scrapes would fade by tomorrow morning.

"Nat, you _know _it's not healthy to bottle up that much," a voice said from behind her.

"Yes, I heard you," she answered, crushing both his pride and the unasked question. "And not like I care." Hawkeye cringed as her bleeding fist crashed into the bag, smearing it with blood.

Knowing it was making him squirm, Natasha kept up with the punching. The bag was just finally starting to protest when he grabbed her fist, absorbing her next hit. He barely flinched and held her burning eyes. "Stop, Natasha," he said gently. His voice was almost a whisper and felt like a caress, something that she knew only happened with her.

All expression slid off her face and drained from her eyes. Meeting her utterly empty look, he let her fist slide through his fingers, leaving her blood on his hands. Clint watched her expression harden without actually doing so - by this time he could read her better than just about anyone - before she turned away and went right back to punching the bag.

She didn't want to see her blood on his hands. She didn't want to be reminded of what almost happened in Germany all those years ago. She didn't want to think about what he might've done after - _if _he'd assassinated her. She punched harder, trying to destroy the image of physical red on her ex-partner's hands. _"Your ledger is _dripping. _It's gushing_ _red. Can you really wipe out _that _much red?"_

In the eye, in the stomach, in the chest - she viciously attacked Loki's image for all she was worth before she drew her gun and _shot _the bag right where his chest would be. Clint watched her warily: to interrupt her would be close if not suicide. Breathing harshly and not bothering to hide it, she socked the bag one more time, her steel fist too much for the chains holding it up. It crashed to the floor, sand pouring out of the bullet hole. Natasha went still, head bowed, fists held stiffly at her sides; a soldier wearing a cloak of regrets.

_"You're a spy. Not a soldier." _Again she shook her head, praying that the damned memories would stay locked in her mental vaults. She _really _could not deal with this shit.

A hand on her shoulder couldn't crack her coat of stone, but that didn't mean she didn't feel it. "You done?" The question was quiet and nonjudgmental. Even if she tried, she couldn't ever be that impartial.

"Yeah." She took Barton completely by surprise when she abruptly spun around and collapsed against him. Rarely did she ever admit she needed him, let alone be the one to initiate an embrace. So when she carefully wrapped her deceptively thin arms around his strong waist, he almost melted on the spot. Badass, tightly controlled master archer and assassin? Who, him?

"Barton, stop fucking thinking and just _hug _me already." Of course he'd have no problem smushing _her_, but when it was the other way around he became a stone. _Of course! _She waited...waited...and finally, her partner's strong arms cautiously wrapped around her slim body.

"Tash?"

"Yeah?" Natasha didn't miss his use of the pet name that was reserved only for when the world wasn't around to witness the miracle that there were people within the assassins at all. Her face was buried in his chest, and she let herself close her eyes and breathe. Here with Barton was the closest she would ever get to experiencing that fleeting illusion of safety; though it worried her that she let him possess that kind of power, Nat knew that he would never abuse it. Because if he did... _let's not go there._

"Couldn't sleep?" She muttered, eyeing the quiver slung over his shoulder and cutting off his question. The case holding his bow was resting by the broken bag.

"Not without you there," he answered steadily, not missing a beat. Upon hearing that, Natasha turned to stone in his muscled arms.

"Barton -"

"Clint," he corrected, making her roll her eyes. Some bits of him she would never understand.

"_Clint_," she began again, shooting him a dirty look. As she prepared to tell him all the reasons why he couldn't _say _shit like that, her ex-partner stopped her oncoming monologue with a rare serious look.

"That's not what I meant and you know it." Even as she raised an eyebrow, he continued. "True, I can't really sleep without you there - but you and I both know that we don't sleep. Even in REM, we're trained to wake at the slightest disturbance. It's that you and I had been partners for so many years, and then it just _ended_. The whole "us" thing isn't something either of us let go of, and you know it." Those blue eyes were calm, controlled - almost nothing she said would break the tight lock he always had on his emotions. "Learning to sleep without the person you trust the most to have your back isn't easy, Natasha."

Her stomach twitched uneasily when he used her full name. _Barton, you are an _asshole_ - you're making me listen to your shit and fucking _deal _with it. _"What do you want me to tell you? That it isn't hard for me either?" The question was a mark of just how far she'd come - nine years ago, the _idea _of saying such a thing would have never even crossed her unnaturally sharp mind. "I've never had a partner as _good_ as you, Clint." She sighed wearily. "And it's hell teaching myself to sleep without you. But we have to do it. You know that." The majority of her focus wasn't on delivering that verdict - she was busy trying to beat down the pain clawing at her chest. Since it had ended, she'd wanted that dark, unbreakable partnership back every single day, and it was never more painful to have lost than when she was in the field - without him.

Unable to resist, drowning in regret and something like guilt, Natasha tugged his head down and kissed him. "You piss me off, Barton."

Poor Clint didn't think he could handle much more of Natasha's quicksilver moods. Even as he kissed her back, he questioned where this would go if they let it happen. Likely nowhere - since they were no longer partners. But beyond that, the future was foggy: she'd blinded Hawkeye.

_Damn it, Nat._


End file.
